3-8
The landscape of Silithus seems perpetually frozen in a surface-level stillness, with tiny elements constantly migrating and changing. The wind carries away a grain of sand, only for another to take its place. The sand dune seen today is not the same as the one from ten days ago, though its shape and size remain unchanged. Bugs emerge from unpredictable places to forage, and after they return beneath the sand, the previously disturbed surface returns to its original state. If a person's appearance never changed, and their body never bore scars, they would embody Silithus. Their brain would still think, their blood would still flow, but every joy and pain truly experienced, every anxiety over the passage of time, and every jealousy towards others would never be reflected in their eyes or the creases of their skin. The sunlight casts a shadow behind them, its shade and outline always so precise that it even defines the space occupied by their body.
Bossia could understand this peculiar stillness. A mercenary's life is unpredictable, but the stability of Silithus itself limits chaos and disorder. The noise of battle is temporary, soon covered by the ever-shifting sand. What connects one day to the next isn't physical exhaustion, but a mental—she was indeed surprised to feel the word—peace. Silithus is certainly dangerous, but this danger is balanced by a force that soothes the panic it causes.
Among the mercenaries, Bossia couldn't find a single pair of perpetually anxious eyes. They were like blood in Silithus's eternal veins, flowing according to predetermined rules; they brought predictions of danger and death to the desert, but eventually became part of it. Their lives were finite, but their endless war against the Silithid saw no end. One day they would leave or die, and the unstoppable force of balance would bring in new sand, calmly filling the void, returning everything to its original state.
Since leaving Theramore, every place Bossia visited had been chaotic until she arrived in Silithus. However, Silithus's order was different from that of Stormwind or Theramore, unmanipulated by human hands, derived entirely from natural forces.
Occasional friction didn't prevent her frequent interactions with Bassario. Her initial curiosity about him stemmed from his reflections in others' eyes, such as the dwarf Tamara's complaint in return for a life-saving favor, other mercenaries' discontent with the natives, and Marlis's conclusion: "always choosing the most dangerous way to do things." Gradually, she realized there was no benefit in understanding him through these labels. If she were satisfied with others' conclusions, she would only become another ordinary mercenary who discriminated against natives. Especially, she had to forget Marlis's words—this commander had never carried out missions with the mercenaries; his judgment was a summary based on information provided by others, so why believe him and abandon her own judgment? Just like their argument about dealing with the Twilight's Hammer, her preconceived notion from Marlis's words made her believe Bassario's explanation was just an excuse.
Over time, Bossia formed her own preliminary conclusion about Bassario's character. First, Bassario was actually one of the most experienced mercenaries here, accompanied by different judgment methods and a slight overconfidence. He understood the static nature of Silithus better than anyone else; in his eyes, there were no unexpected situations. Looking back, during their joint mission to burn down a Silithid nest, when a swarm of assault-type Silithid suddenly blocked the house's exit, he immediately explained the reason to her and quickly reacted to her escape plan. More importantly, his innate affinity for Silithus as a native meant he had no real hatred for the Silithid. Observing Bassario's eyes during fights with the Silithid, Bossia occasionally got the impression that he understood them.
Facing the Twilight's Hammer was a different matter, likely related to the story Rahol told her: Bassario's trainer in his youth, Jose, killed his parents who were Twilight's Hammer cultists and then committed suicide. Of course, Bossia hadn't asked Bassario about this directly yet, but it was clear that the Twilight's Hammer were merely targets to him. If it benefited the mission, he would kill Twilight's Hammer cultists who could otherwise be spared. He never interrogated them or spent time understanding their thoughts.
Combining these traits, Bassario's somewhat age-inappropriate—innocence, or childishness? Bossia could never decide which term to use. This stubbornness, unwillingness to compromise, was the root of his unappealing demeanor. Perhaps it was because he never lived in a fully structured society. This thought suddenly appeared one evening when Bossia saw Bassario wipe blood from his sword with a cloth, then turn it over and spend a few seconds gazing at the dark red stains, as if seeing an unprecedented pattern.
This unnatural scene became a catalyst; suddenly, Bossia could connect him with the first man in her life. Political prisoner Neil Jessie and Bassario both couldn't hide their presence in a crowd—the difference was Neil was revered, while Bassario was resented. Without Jose's incident years ago, things would probably be different. On the first day she volunteered for a mission with Bassario, the resistance she felt from the crowd towards Bassario and the fervor of prisoners towards Neil's singing were the same cause with opposite results. They were people not bound by their groups. For Bossia, approaching Neil and Bassario meant experiencing danger with them. This danger had to be moderate, with a balance she couldn't quite grasp. Even in Gadgetzan, her younger brother-like figure, Khalif, had a temperament somewhat similar to these two.
Jorgen was entirely different. He hid himself well and successfully. If not for his profession, he wouldn't actively seek danger. Bossia still remembered Jorgen's skill in protecting others, even if the protected person had given up on survival. With him, she felt safe but also weak. If only weakness remained in her heart, she wouldn't have left Stormwind at all. This might be an illusion, as she was undoubtedly weaker at twenty-one compared to today. Regardless, she didn't think she had ever truly felt the same way about Jorgen as she did about Neil.
"You want adventure, no problem," Rahol had said. Since then, she had been avoiding him. Rahol represented a danger beyond her tolerance, but his words helped her recognize herself. Between sixteen and nineteen, several young noblemen had proposed through Benedictus, and she had rejected them, citing her need to focus on paladin training. Since then, she had gradually distanced herself from the life arranged by her godfather—from inner realization to action. Falling in love with a political prisoner, abandoning her faith, deserting the army, and up to now. These possibilities must have existed long before her fallout with her godfather, but she couldn't recall any visible trigger in her past life. This is just how I am, she told herself.
"You have come to the wrong place." That was also something Rahol had said. "Your compassion remains, but you will slowly change." He had said that too. With her mind muddled by alcohol at the time, she couldn't recall Rahol's expression when he said these words, but it seemed he was playing the role of a corrupted advisor. He revealed the tumor within him as a warning to others not to follow in his footsteps, while allowing the root of the disease to burrow deeper.
There was a female mercenary, slightly older than Bossia, who was very popular in this male-dominated world. Once, Bossia saw this female mercenary playing cards with others. Because of a joke, she laughed and lifted her shirt to reveal one breast, then covered it again a moment later. The male card players got excited and noisy for a Shawlt while before refocusing on their game. Bossia knew this didn't mean the female mercenary would randomly seek partners, nor did it mean those men didn't respect her. According to Benedictus's teachings, this was undoubtedly obscene behavior, but in the current environment, it was just a small favor from the mercenary to her friends, a reminder of her femininity. She garnered attention and felt her attractiveness. Bossia wouldn't do such a thing now, but she could understand it. In an environment with different morals, she—or any woman—would achieve similar goals through different means. Lahol's warning was about how she would, over time, adapt to Silithus's morals, which conflicted with her past.
"Your interest in Bassario alone isn't worth staying here," he had said.
Bossia couldn't simply trust this statement. Because the mysterious Rahol saw through her too clearly, she couldn't trust him. She wanted to know more about Rahol but couldn't take action because it would expose more of herself.
—Just like now. This was in the mercenaries' lounge and entertainment hall. Because of the sandstorm these days, they couldn't go out on missions, so they spent most of their time drinking and gambling. She glanced at Rahol, who was five or six people away, and quickly looked away before seeing what he was doing.
Bassario was playing dice with a few natives. Bossia wasn't interested in this and didn't want to approach him in the current setting. With gambling, she preferred watching to participating. Ten minutes later, a scorpion fight caught her attention. The mercenaries put their pet desert scorpions in an iron cage and made them fight each other. In such matches, it was common for both scorpions to die, so the real competition was about which one survived longer.
Now, the most anticipated match was happening because it was the turn of the mercenary nicknamed "Champion" to release his scorpion. The nickname was straightforward; he rarely lost a scorpion fight. As Bossia squeezed into the crowd, a mercenary with a bandaged neck pulled her to the edge.
"If you haven't bet, don't block others. Want to bet?" he asked.
"No."
He turned away and went to find others to take bets. Bossia stayed on the edge. She saw the Champion lift the iron cage and show off his scorpion. The ugly, deep-black creature gripped the cage's thin iron bars tightly with one claw. As it turned toward her, Bossia, who had adapted to fighting the Silithid, found herself scared of the scorpion in the cage.